


Three Years to Go

by raven_aorla



Series: Time Out of Mind [18]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Forgiveness, Gen, Gentleman Highwayman, Prison, References to problematic sexual things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 15:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8922949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: It's only just. [Coda to Three Days Already, which you must read first. Has bonus material for several other stories.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sure I got stuff about prison wrong, but I hope it's believable enough that you'll bear with me. The Washington Post story mentioned near the end is real, and helped inspire this fic.
> 
> You know what really inspired this fic, though? Part of a comment from Loony_Dragon, wondering about Pontiere. You gotta be careful what you say to me, folks. I had no intention of writing this until I saw that comment yesterday. (I'm on break, don't judge.)

He decided to tuck "Louie" away for the duration. He boxed it up and put it on a shelf between things like "going to the movies" and "Sunday brunch". It's possible someone might call him Louis, but he'd otherwise be Pontiere here. Last names seemed de rigeur, when it wasn't numbers. Though it would most likely be best to not use words like "de rigeur".

He knew some prisons were four to a cell, and was relieved to find he'd only have one cellmate to try to get along with. There was a toilet, a little sink, and a heavily scratched table with a chair. Could be worse.

When the door closed and they were locked in together, the man climbed down from the top bunk and gave him a bizarrely sincere-looking bow. Early thirties in age, maybe. "Plunkett, carjacking, horse theft, and armed robbery, no kills. Four years to go unless next year's parole hearing works out. Your turn."

"Um, Pontiere, kidnapping, three years. But maybe parole next year, too." He put the small bag of meager personal items he'd been permitted onto the end of the bottom bunk. Pictures of his family, his favorite soft socks, and books in French to keep him from forgetting it. 

"Ah, they put us snitches together."

"What makes you say that?"

"Otherwise no way you'd be here rather than higher-security, plus a sentence that short, for kidnapping. Unless you went all Lima syndrome and started trying to save the captive." Plunkett studied Pontiere's expression. "It was both, wasn't it? Aww. I'll tell you right now, there's gonna be an even split between guys giving you a hard time and guys telling them to quit it. It'll almost certainly just be verbal, though. Count your blessings."

***

It took only a few days for certain dynamics to solidify.

Particularly nice to him: Arnold (fraud, impersonating a federal agent, blackmailing his wife's phone sex line customers). 

Particularly mean to him: Howe aka What/Where/Who/Huh/Dunno...(something white collar, seemed reluctant to share more), and Cornwallis (ditto). They started the trend of calling Pontiere "Teary" after he had a panic attack while working in the kitchen. 

Claude Guerchy had hit him very hard with a metal spatula, that terrible final night before they were arrested. Pontiere had bitten back the urge to safeword. Distraction from doing worse to Chev needed more time.

The conditions of his guilty plea and testimony meant he got to see a therapist on Fridays. Well, the therapist held a few hours in a multipurpose office on Thursdays and Fridays for a few of the inmates, not like it was an outing. It felt like an odd dose of normality, though. He told “Call me either Tallmadge or Tally” about the kitchen incident. 

“Consider the laundry crew,” Tallmadge said, chewing on his pen thoughtfully. “It’s less popular than kitchen crew. I suggest you swap with someone; I’ll make sure your overlords don’t assume it’s because the other one wants to pilfer packaged items for the black market that I know nothing about. Or at least not purely because. I don’t read minds. How are things with Plunkett?”

***

During the second week, after lights-out, Pontiere asked, “Are you awake?”

“I am now.”

“Sorry. Are there cameras watching inside the cells, or just in the halls and common areas?”

“The latter. We’re too low-security for it to be worth the time and expense to watch us pee in the middle of the night. Now sleep.”

“Would you like a blowjob?”

There was a long enough silence that Pontiere started really regretting the question. Then Plunkett said quietly, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but nobody you’ve met is here for rape, or deserves to be, as far as I know. Yeah, sure, barter economy, happens any security level except solitary. Maybe even there, somehow. Not the same. So if this some kind of preemptive thing to keep me from making you do other shit, I would thank you to have a better opinion of me than that. And I’m not buying what you’re selling.”

“No, sorry, I...I just like giving blowjobs. To, like, at least kinda decent men.” Plunkett was a lot better than Claude, not that this was a high bar. 

Another silence, less perilous. “Not gay.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“I’ve sort of got a lady.”

“Sort of?”

“I think.”

Pontiere decided not to ask. “You could pretend I’m her.”

“You’re making me sad.”

“Am I also making you want a blowjob?” Pontiere wanted the quiet in his head. He wanted to be good for someone. He knew this was probably unhealthy, but of all the harm he could be doing, it was only to himself and no more than he’d done plenty of before.

Top bunk would be hazardous, so Plunkett climbed down to lie on Pontiere’s. “Not sitting up, kid. Tired.”

“That’s fine. Pull my hair if you want, or not. Give me a warning when you’re close so I don’t choke. Why are you taking your shirt off?”

“Because if you’re even the tiniest bit competent I’m going to get hot. Like my tattoo?”

“I saw it in the showers, but yeah.” It was on his chest. YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE.

“Creeper. Okay, you wanna, then - holy shit, how’d you do that?”

Afterwards, Pontiere said, “I need to go clean up.” It was also good be be on laundry crew because he’d managed to sneak an extra pillowcase to use as a washcloth. He couldn’t keep himself tidy the way he’d done for Plunkett. He drank some water and then rinsed out his mouth. 

Plunkett whistled languidly. He didn’t move. “Keep this talent under wraps. Constant requests, otherwise.”

“Wasn’t planning on letting it be known I’m gay, even. Please.”

“No prob. Free ammunition for your enemies. How about you go sleep in my bunk? I’ll stay here.”

Pontiere had known he wasn’t going to get a cuddle out of this, but he felt a little wistful all the same. He climbed onto the top bunk and wound the blanket tightly around him. At least making himself come had made things go soft and fuzzy around the edges.

***

He didn’t expect any visitors. Plunkett didn’t get visitors either. Apparently his only close friend and former partner-in-crime, James MacLaine, was serving a much longer sentence in a less nice place because of having fewer redeemable qualities and Plunkett turning on him. The only explanation he provided was, “The robbery went wrong, and he made a call I didn’t consider acceptable.” Pontiere didn’t ask about the sort-of-maybe lady.

Arnold frequently got a friend(?) named André who brought news of Arnold’s wife, also in prison and thus unable to visit him herself. Plunkett said André was also availing himself of Arnold’s wife’s conjugal visit privileges, but Pontiere was skeptical. 

Yet Eliza Schuyler came to see him at first opportunity. This was the nurse who’d entered Pontiere’s house shortly after the rescue party burst in, done what she could for Chev, then turned around and asked Pontiere if he was injured. At which point he’d started sobbing. Thankfully the group had split up to different parts of the house by then, waiting to citizen’s-arrest Claude on his return. Only she and someone named John witnessed Pontiere’s meltdown. He knew John’s name because Friedrich had said, “John, be Eliza’s backup for now. I’ll go on lookout duty with Martha while Pierre helps Chev shower. I need to leave the room before I snap his neck.” This may have contributed to the meltdown.

She wore jeans and an unbuttoned navy blue peacoat, and didn’t seem disgusted by him. “I volunteer at a nearby juvenile detention center, and it wasn’t much out of my way. How are you?”

Of course the girl was a saint of infinite compassion. Of course. “Short view, okay, considering. Long view, monumentally fucked up.” Though his lap time around the track in the exercise yard had improved. Little victories. 

“Maybe think about the really long view?” She must have seen his lack of enthusiasm. She switched gears. “Would you like to know who won America’s Got Talent?”

“It wasn’t the singer with the poignant backstory, I hope.”

She smiled. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Aislabie/Bubbles (fraud) later ribbed Pontiere about his “girlfriend”. He encouraged it, and hoped Eliza wouldn’t mind.

***

“We’re having our first prayer meeting in awhile. The minister was on sick leave. Do you want to go? He’s Episcopalian Christian, but he keeps it broad enough for everyone. It’s more like group therapy almost. Or an AA meeting where we’re giving up crime instead of alcohol. They have other religions other times, but if you want a Christian minister without dealing with that Sunday guy you didn’t like...”

Pontiere was rereading Les Trois Mousquetaires and feeling more serene than usual. He opened his mouth to decline.

Then Plunkett said, “For some reason, Howe and Cornwallis never go to the meetings and get nervous if you talk about them, or say anything about Rev Sam.”

The Reverend Samuel Seabury didn’t seem like someone who’d make people nervous. He was incredibly petite and babyfaced, and right now he also had a foot in a cast and a boot, as well as crutches. Pontiere wondered how he ministered unto more violent criminals without getting eaten whole. He beamed at the circle that had formed, everyone in folding chairs. “I can put weight on that foot again, so here I am. Did you miss me? I see a new face among us. Would you like to introduce yourself?”

“Louis D. Pontiere,” Pontiere said in a small voice.

Rev Sam turned his beaming in his direction. “I hope being in this circle will bring you as much joy as your being here brings me. Welcome.”

“What happened to your foot?” Arnold asked.

“One of my prayer meetings elsewhere was interrupted by a riot. The gentlemen nearest me protected me from getting held hostage, but I still got trampled a bit. Now, a Unitarian Universalist chaplain I’m friends with has introduced to me the idea of beginning a meeting with Joys and Concerns. Her advice is generally good, so let’s try. We’re each going to say something that has brought us joy, and something that is making us feel concern. Then we will have a silent prayer of gratitude and a wish for strength.”

Things continued in a similar vein, pleasant, if bland. Then Rev Sam said, “I have good news. I’ve managed to bend the ear of higher-ups who’d be willing to consider a new enrichment program, or even two, if there’s enough interest and it seems worthwhile. I thought we could brainstorm.”

Pontiere could hardly recognize his own voice, as timid as it was. “Um. I, uh. A few years ago I read a story in the Washington Post about a men’s prison in Maryland? Where they had um, uh, a knitting club?”

When snickering broke out, Rev Sam suddenly turned to steel. “The next person who mocks anyone else here is banned from the group for the next three weeks. Understood? Or maybe I’ll turn you over to the lizard people who secretly run Congress.”

“Huh?” Pontiere whispered to Plunkett.

Plunkett whispered back, “It’s a quirk. Roll with it.”

Then Rev Sam was a cuddly itty bitty uke again. “Pontiere, please, continue.”

“Like the inmates had to keep all the needles and scissors and yarn in the locker when not under supervised use, obviously, but the woman who started the group taught them how to make swatches and hats. They made stress swatches to tug on when they were angry, and they made hats for everyone they’d...everyone they’d hurt, or disappointed, and sent the hats to them. Then when they ran out, they made hats for charity. It wouldn’t have to just be hats, but if it’s a program that’s precedented, it’s probably easier to get approval, right?”

“If enough people are interested, that sounds nice. We would have to find someone to teach knitting. Don’t make faces. One of the manliest men I ever knew was an excellent knitter.” Rev Sam got lost in a memory for a second before snapping out of it. 

“Oh, I know how to knit.” Friedrich had taught him when they went on a cruise together, because it is actually possible to want a break from constant fucking, especially when you’ve just enjoyed a seafood buffet. Not that Pontiere was likely to experience that again for a long time. Either of those things.

Rev Sam smiled a softer, less beam-y smile. More personal. “We’ll put that on the list. Other ideas?”

***

Two months later, Pontiere was summoned to receive a phone call.

In a voice that couldn’t be definitively pinned as male or female, the caller said, “I like the hat.” Then they hung up.

Pontiere slept better that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Washington Post article about prison knitting club](https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/2014/04/24/a814362a-ae0e-11e3-a49e-76adc9210f19_story.html?utm_term=.5380d4e1aee5)
> 
> William Plunkett and Jamie MacLaine were "Gentleman Highwayman", who wore Venetian masks and robbed carriages and were oh-so polite and nobody got hurt. Except MacLaine got caught and hanged and Plunkett escaped to America. 
> 
> Lima Syndrome is named after an incident in Lima, Peru, where a group that had taken a bunch of hostages started worrying about their welfare and let some (but not all) of them go without prompting. 
> 
> There are certain crimes that make inmates pariahs, the classics being raping and/or killing children. I imagine Howe and Cornwallis, in an environment with no rapists, murderers, or other seriously violent criminals to make them seem small potatoes, are not eager to share that they did bad things to hospital patients. Also my realization that Sam's a prison chaplain and they're in prison made this too delicious not to do.
> 
> In real life, Benedict Arnold and Peggy Shippen escaped and John André didn't. Here the tables are turned. But he's helpful! I couldn't figure out how to make it work from this POV, but what's happening is that they're a triad again, André has sex with Margaret, then he calls up Arnold and clandestinely describes what happened. (I read an interview; prison phone sex happens but it's awkward for the person who has to listen in for security purposes.)
> 
> John Aislabie was a Chancellor of the Exchequer who got involved in a massive corruption scandal known as "The South Sea Bubble".


	2. Additional Reading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light palate cleanser. Popped into my head.

Dear Mx. d'Eon,

Eliza tells me you're the person who somehow liberated my stack of old Vogue issues from storage and asked her to bring me one per visit. She says she'll mail this note to you on my behalf. I understand your preference that I not know where you live. Compassion and trust are different things. 

At first I thought you might be mocking me, but she says you honestly consider it fair that you give me the same reading material during imprisonment that I gave you. I have enjoyed rereading the magazines. My standard explanation to the others is that they were from my late mother's subscription, which isn't a lie. The guys in knitting club might suspect (I'm less guarded there, and I talk about color matching and accessories), but nobody's called me out on it.

There's been an unexpected side benefit that may amuse you. Porn is not allowed here, but Vogue has been deemed benign by the authorities. Which means that carefully ripped-out photos of supermodels have become popular bartering items. Arnold, whose masculinity is less fragile than most of the others', gives me backrubs in exchange for pictures of ones that look even slightly like his wife. To add to his collage of actual pictures of his wife. Bubbles has created a complex trading system with everyone that has resulted in him also having a lot of nonperishable "tropical" fruit cocktail and little jam packets. As long as we don't start fighting over it, we're allowed to continue this. Plunkett helps me keep the source hidden until all the pics are gone. He gets dibs on women in equestrian gear. Should there be any. 

I hang onto what remains, for the sake of the articles that haven't been mangled in the process. And the occasional male model. Though there's a quieter trade in those, too.

Glad you like the hat. Do you think Pierre would accept one? I suspect Friedrich wouldn't.

Thank you. Not just for this. I'm sorry, again. Eliza won't give details, but she has heard you are well. I hope so.

Sincerely,  
Louis D. Pontiere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The South Sea Bubble involved bribes from the South Sea Trading Company.


End file.
